My name is Murray Alcot. I took over as funeral director at a crumbling funeral home that had seen its last days.
The previous owners were a Hawaiian family, the Kaulima clan. Each member, as they got older, acquired some sickness, and within six months, that person died. The parents went first, and then the malady went down the line, from person to person, until only the youngest son was left. His name was Gabriel; he was forty years old when I met him, but by his appearance, he looked like he was in his eighties. Gaunt, shuffling more than he walked and straining to speak, handed me the paperwork that would leave me all responsibility for the funeral home and the adjoining cemetery. An hour after that meeting, Gabriel died in the back office. His services were the first to be held when the funeral home became mine. Once they arrived, everything was set out for family, friends, and well-wishers. With everything in place, I told my assistants, Florence and Ray, to hang tight while I used the bathroom. I had barely gotten covered by the chicken skin you get when the shi-shi first comes out when I heard horrific screams. I finished up as quickly as I could and ran out front. Florence and Ray were holding on to one another and screaming bloody murder. I saw why.Walking into the funeral home were the members of Gabriel's deceased family. Behind them were the rest of the Kaulima 'ohana from generations past and everyone else buried in that cemetery, all coming to pay their respects. The pews were filled, so the rest of the dead stood up against the walls and then the outside. The three of us ran for our cars but saw that as we tried to exit the property, the way was barred by more of the dead. They weren't letting us leave. They weren't letting us park at the far end of the cemetery just to kill time and wait until the dead left. They were everywhere, all heading toward the funeral home for the services.
The realization suddenly hit me, and I shared it with Florence and Ray. "I know why we can't leave," I sighed.
"Why?" The two whispered simultaneously.
"I signed a contract assuming all responsibility for the funeral home and everything therein contained," I said with regretful finality. "We have to go back there and conduct the services like we would any other funeral service, dead people or not. It's the only way we'll be able to leave."
So, we did it just like it's always done. Prayer, eulogy, viewing of the casket, then food afterward. Hawaiian food is mainly not long rice but shoyu chicken, lomi salmon, shoyu poke, poi, lau lau, and jasmine rice. Everything went like clockwork like we'd do for a living. Once Gabriel's remains were committed to the earth, the dead went back to their resting places in the cemetery. When Florence, Ray, and I returned to the funeral home, they went to the kitchen and made themselves a plate to eat, but I stopped them.
"Don't eat that," I warned them. "That food was for those dead, so don't eat it."
It was too late when Ray popped a shoyu chicken in his mouth and spat it back on the plate. "Ewww! What the hell! It tastes like shit!"
"Wait a minute," Florence noticed. "None of this food has been eaten, but I saw those dead people with piles of food on their plates!"
"They ate the essence of the food," I explained. "That's why we can't eat THIS food, because it was meant for the dead."
"Oh fuck, but I'm starving!" Ray whined.
"Me too," Florence chimed in. "I could eat my foot right now."
We ended up at Burger King, where I explained everything to my two new employees. It turns out that this particular funeral home was not for public consumption; it was explicitly meant for the dead. We would conduct business as usual. What I didn't tell Florence and Ray was that for each funeral service we held, even though the job paid well, was that a little of our life force would be taken from us until nothing was left. That's how the place maintains its upkeep.
credit @dailystar
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